


CHALICE

by Anonymous



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Breeding Kink, Child Abuse, Congregation Participation!, Cults, Explicit Sexual Content, Grooming, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Incest, Intersex, Kyrie and Credo Make An Appearance, Multi, Religion Kink, Ritual Sex, Sacred Buttplug, Slow Roasted Dead Dove: Ordered Off The Secret Menu, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24984028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Nero has always known he was different. Sanctus has always known he was special.
Relationships: Nero (Devil May Cry)/Demon, Nero (Devil May Cry)/Other(s), Nero (Devil May Cry)/Sanctus
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57
Collections: Anonymous





	CHALICE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hornybraincell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hornybraincell/gifts).



> Spring Heats 2020, babey! Thank you to one of the many sacred muses @ hornybraincell for the prompt... here is your lovingly groomed boybride. <3

It’s not the first time Nero’s been called up to the Vicar’s study, and it isn’t even the first time he’s been sent there for fighting. 

Last time, he’d lost his temper when one of the older boys had teased Kyrie enough to make her cry, and he didn’t have much of a memory beyond that. Just the feeling of inexpressible rage and knowing he was going too far and not caring. He’s not particularly keen to recover those memories-- the boy and his family had moved across the island afterwards, and Nero had sat in His Holiness’s office with blood drying on his skin, adults arguing over him as if he wasn’t really there.

Today’s nowhere near that bad-- he held back and the only blood came from his nose after a lucky hit, but it doesn’t even hurt anymore. Credo’s dad (because he isn’t Nero’s father, he knows, everyone knows) just gave him the big  _ disappointed, but not surprised _ sigh and told him to go see His Holiness. Probably to ask for penance instructions or get lectured about the importance of unity within the Order. 

The office hasn’t changed at all from the first time Nero saw it. Big windows let in tons of sunlight, the thick carpets making his footsteps quiet. There’s always a smell in here, of old books and pipe tobacco, and he imagines that he can see it swirling like dust motes in the air. 

His Holiness isn’t behind his desk, and instead on one of the long sitting couches in the sunshine, a delicate tea tray set on a nearby table. Nero stands very still, hands balled at his sides and chin tucked low. His Holiness works so hard to protect and care for all of Fortuna, and Nero’s bothering him in the one moment he takes to rest. 

“Now, Nero,” he begins, not in the sermon voice but in the quiet one, where Nero knows if he looks up, His Holiness’s eyes will be resting totally on him and nowhere else. “Would you be willing to tell me why your father sent you here?” 

Nero sniffs, dried blood itching on the inside of his nose. “For fighting, Your Holiness.”

“And why were you fighting?”

The room is stuffy, and suddenly all the sunlight seems to make everything too hot. “I… one of the older boys… he was making fun of me.” That’s not a lie, he can say that and not be lying to His Holiness. 

“An older boy made fun of you… and when you decided to fight him, what did you want to happen?”

“I wanted him to stop saying stuff. About me.” 

“What did you think would happen if he kept talking about you?”

Nero does not want to say it, doesn’t even want to begin to admit it, much less to the most important man in Fortuna. His Holiness has always been close with Credo’s family, almost more like a grandfather in some regards to Credo and Kyrie-- and if he’d been normal, maybe Nero, too. 

He’s disappointing him. He’s disappointing his family, everybody. Nero bites his lower lip, worrying it and staring at the intricate patterns of the thick carpet. “I thought, uhm… everyone would think I’m bad. Even more.”

His Holiness makes a soft noise, almost like Kyrie’s mom does whenever Nero says the wrong thing and makes her sad. It’s greedy, and he feels bad, but it’s nice to think that His Holiness thinks Nero’s sad, or maybe brave. 

“Nero, you fought because you were afraid, so in truth, you have been sent to me because you were afraid. Does that sound right?”

He nods. That’s embarrassing to admit, he doesn’t want to be a coward on top of everything else, but being scared probably gets less extra penance chores than fighting does. 

“Come sit here, with me.” His Holiness pats the couch, swirls the flecks of dust dancing in the sunlight. 

“Is that okay?” Nero blurts out, wishing he could stuff the question back in his mouth. “I’m all dirty, from fighting, and--”

“Of course it’s okay.” His Holiness smiles, face crinkling at the edges, and Nero feels a rush of relief. “We can sit and talk. It’s alright to be afraid, Nero, but this is your home, and it would make me sad to think you were scared of anyone here.”

That’s a lot to think about all at once, so instead Nero concentrates on not tripping over the carpet and sitting down on the couch next to His Holiness, trying not to stare at the intricate embroidery of his robes. He feels like a dumb, grubby kid. 

“Would you like some coffee, Nero?” His Holiness asks, reaching to pour himself a saucer, and Nero’s eyes widen. Coffee is an adult thing, he’s watched Kyrie’s mom and dad drink it, pour it for each other, for friends, talk over it casually. It’s something grownups enjoy together-- when His Holiness said they would sit and talk, he must’ve meant… more like equals. Not a lecture. He was taking Nero seriously. 

“Yes, please!”

He’s very careful to take the cup from His Holiness without seeming like it’s a big deal, tries to mirror the way he holds it casually. The smell is sort of gross, but he makes himself take a sip, accidentally jumping as he scorches his tongue, but there’s no way he’ll complain.

His Holiness smiles, getting comfortable against the couch while Nero tries not to make a face about how bitter the coffee tastes. “Now, what were those boys teasing you about?”

“Uhm. Just how I look, I guess.”

“Oh, surely not. You’re quite handsome.” 

Was he? Nero looks at his own reflection in the black coffee, wobbling around. Other kids have blue eyes, but only grandmas and grandpas have white hair. When he thinks about what handsome looks like, he thinks of… maybe some of the older boys, the ones who don’t pay attention to him. Or Kyrie, even though she’s a girl, and girls are pretty, not handsome. “It was because… I looked different than them.”

“You look like any young man to me.”

Young man! But he didn’t say it like he was scolding! The coffee cup is warm in his hands, and Nero sits up a little straighter. But… His Holiness didn’t know the truth, and Nero wilts again. Unless he’d understand? “I’m just… different.”

“Would you tell me what happened? I can decide for myself if you’re truly ‘different,’ Nero. The Savior made each of us to suit his will, and that is a gift we must sometimes work hard to understand and accept.” 

The Savior made him like this? That makes him feel something, but he isn’t sure he feels better. He likes the thought of just saying what happened, and His Holiness can decide if Nero’s actually bad. And he’s already said a lot of nice things about him, so he probably won’t, right? 

Nero buys time by sipping the coffee, burning his mouth all over again, but it never hurts for long. “We were playing, and Tomás said he had to go home to--”  _ Don’t say to go pee! That sounds like a little kid thing to say.  _ “To go to the bathroom, and Gawain said he could just-- g-go to the bathroom outside, as long as it wasn’t on anybody and nobody could see.”

This is the point where an adult stops him and tells him that’s very rude, not clean, and he gets the hand-washing lecture. His Holiness just nods. 

“So we went to one of the old canals, and there was some water under the bridge, and nobody could see us, and Tomás took out his thing to go to the bathroom, and Gawain was like, ‘that’s so small, look at mine,’ and they said I was being a baby if I didn’t show mine, too.” 

Nero sees himself rambling, faltering, wishes His Holiness would stop him or say something, but he just keeps watching. Listening. Actually listening to Nero, like what he’s saying is important. 

His face burns, and he wishes he could put the coffee away. His hands are getting sweaty holding it. “They said it was messed up, and… it didn’t look like theirs.”

He’s doing the thing again where he says something that’s true, but it isn’t the whole truth. They did say it was messed up, it did look different than theirs, but Nero had known that for a while. It was when he was a lot younger, but he used to take baths with Credo, and… Credo didn’t say anything, but he sure stared. 

“Does your body hurt?” His Holiness asks, casually. 

“Huh?”

“When you’re playing, or when you’re going to the bathroom or touching yourself, does it hurt? Does it make you unhappy?”

Nero shakes his head. 

“Then, clearly, you were meant to be that way. If it hurt, that would tell us that your body needed to be different, or that something was wrong. But if you’re happy and healthy, then that is how the Savior made you, and how he wanted you formed to receive his love.” His Holiness smiles, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

His heart is beating really fast-- is it that easy? That he’s just, supposed to be this way? Even if it’s different? Kyrie’s mom didn’t wash or look at between his legs when he was younger, even though she’d always nagged Credo about staying clean there, no grown up had ever… they just didn’t know, so he’d thought-- “Can you look at it?”

His Holiness blinks in surprise. “Hm?”

“To make sure. To make sure it’s normal.” Nero moves too quickly, sloshing coffee over the rim of the cup and burning his fingers. It’s fine. It’ll stop hurting in a minute, everything always does. “Sorry, I just-- there’s a hole, too, and I’m-- Tomás and Gawain and Credo don’t have one, and, is that okay, too?”

“Nero, of course.” His Holiness pats his head, ruffles his hair, and Nero could cry. “You can show me. We will make sure everything’s alright, together.”

He smiles, happy to finally set the coffee aside, happy that he can finally just find out, that it’s His Holiness, that this is normal. 

Once he has his pants and underwear off, Nero thinks maybe he should’ve started with his socks and shoes-- especially because His Holiness says to get up on the couch, and he doesn’t want to get dirt on the cushions. But it’s like that isn’t even something he needs to worry about, that this is more important than being neat, like Nero can’t do anything wrong. 

It’s so weird, the feeling of the couch’s embroidery on his bare skin, the feeling of sunlight on parts of him that never see it. The soft hair covering him lights up in the sun and he’s careful not to kick His Holiness-- he actually holds Nero’s legs apart for him, giving him the best angle to look, and Nero sighs happily, not having to worry. 

The ceiling in the office is painted, he finds, with angels and flowers and banners and dusty gold. He never noticed until he laid back like this. 

“Nero, I’ve always known you were special,” His Holiness says, his voice quiet and not solemn or upset, but thoughtful. “The Savior has put so much care into making you this way, and you are truly perfect.” 

It feels wrong to look down and watch, so it’s a surprise when His Holiness touches him, gently and confidently, just a big, dry fingertip running down the crease of his leg to underneath his thing, where he splits into a hole. Like Kyrie, except he’s been too scared to ask if he can look closer, scared that what he sees might be even more different than what he has. 

His Holiness takes in a deep breath, like he’s struggling. “The Order has waited a long, long time to meet you, Nero. I will take care of you-- we all will. You are a precious gift from the Savior himself, and I will show you why.” 

  
  


\---- -- - 

  
  


“Nero…” Kyrie whispers, even though she’s not supposed to, disguising getting close to his ear by reaching across his chest to wash the other shoulder. “You’re excited, right?”

“It’s my duty,” he says, quietly. Trying to be modest about it feels wrong when he’s at the center of attention like this, but what’s he supposed to do, brag? He happened to be born this way, and he’d spent his childhood being ashamed of it, and then his young adulthood being proud of it, and now that the day was finally here… 

One of the other girls shoots them a sour look, although it’s somewhat hampered by the fact that she’s currently cleaning Nero’s feet. It’s not like anyone outside this room can hear them, the sound from the main chamber currently occupied by the rise and fall of a chorus. It’s been hymns since midnight, as if even the air of the temple needs to be saturated with holy sound before the ritual.

He can practically recite the schedule by memory. This has been the most important day of his life for so long, it’s unreal that it’s actually here. His benediction, his consecration, his spiritual marriage to the Savior. 

The cleansing ritual is almost over, every inch of Nero washed in warm water and milk, red flower petals scattered in the huge marble tub. He can’t even do it himself-- Kyrie and the other vestals were supposed to do it, although they’re forbidden from between his legs. Nero’s lived so long with the chastity belt that simply not wearing it in the presence of someone else is enough to make him hard, but nerves are stopping him from trying to act on it, or do anything other than worry.

He’s trained for this, Sanctus has spent so much time, so many years, teaching him restraint, teaching him how to please with his hands and mouth and creases of his body. It’s stupid, but Nero’s worried that somehow, now that he’s finally going to be asked to do something with his cock (he supposes) or his hole (more likely) that he won’t do it right. That it won’t be enough, that the chosen expression of the Savior won’t want to bless him. 

A bell tolls deeper in the temple, and Kyrie dumps one last basin of water over his head-- Nero grins, glad she’s not treating him too specially. It might be his big day, but he still wants to be her brother at the end of it. 

Stepping out of the bath, the vestals surround him with clean linen, gently toweling him dry. He can see through the filmy veils they all wear, the same red roses that were used for the bath fashioned into crowns for them. It’s so strange to be revered by anyone other than Sanctus, to be touched by anyone else. Even just like this. 

He watches himself in the enormous mirror installed in this room, the only light coming from banks of candles. He’s not that much taller than the girls, stuck between being a boy and a man for too long-- but after today, there won’t be any question about it, even if he’s still waiting on a growth spurt. Credo might be taller, but Nero’s going to prove himself in a way no one else can. 

The vestals step back for a moment when he’s dried, silently contemplating with heads bowed in prayer. Kyrie has a smile like she wants to whip his butt with a towel, but there’s a sanctity in the moment that will keep even her mischief in line. 

Next is the anointing with oils-- the thick scent of roses and some kind of musk slicked over his muscles and limbs, most of the vestals rubbing it in, while others retrieve his garments for the ceremony.

None of them touch below his belt line, although one of them does nudge the plug in his ass enough to make him yelp. That had been the first steps of the ritual, Sanctus himself gently going through the familiar steps of preparing him, stretching him open-- this plug was special, the largest he’d ever took and carved especially for this ritual from a single enormous chunk of some deep amethyst that seemed to trap heat. 

Feeling soft and warm, Nero lets them dress him next, although there isn’t much. His robe is more like a nightgown, translucent and heavy with lace that ends just above his hips. The tip of his cock is still visible, but he isn’t supposed to hide it. This is about offering all of him to the Savior. Every inch, inside and out. 

Flimsy rose corsages are affixed to his wrists and ankles, and one of the vestals rings a bell inside the room to signal that he’s ready for the final piece.

It’s Sanctus who arrives to finish him, and Nero kneels before him in the same motion as the vestals. His Holiness puts a finger under Nero’s chin and hardly needs to guide him to look upwards, so used to that touch. 

“Our beautiful bride,” Sanctus muses, eyes dark and expression so, so pleased. Nero should be serious, but he can’t help smiling at the praise. “Are you ready for your veil?”

“Yes, Your Holiness.” 

The veil is affixed to what can only be described as a crown-- two golden horns curling out to look like delicate imitations of the Savior’s, the rest of it swathed in roses and pearls. It’s heavier than it looks, but Nero’s happy to bear it, opening his eyes to the world now muted by the soft, pale fabric in front of him. 

“Perfection.” Sanctus breathes out as if he’d been holding it in, extending his hand for Nero to take as he rises. “Our precious gift.”

  
  
  


In the main chamber, the choir has been dismissed, leaving only a handful of the highest-ranking Order members dressed in sacred finery, all starched pale cloth and thick, golden embroidery. The vestals take their places at the chimes placed at the far edges of the room, beginning the soft, constant noise to fill the room up alongside the thick clouds of incense. 

Nero holds on tightly to Sanctus as they approach the bed, just white marble carved into an altar, more than big enough for Nero to lay on. It’s cold, despite being ringed with tall taper candles, but Nero doesn’t shiver as Sanctus guides his body down flat. He won’t show weakness, no matter what-- he’s here to make Sanctus proud, make the Order proud, to accept the Savior’s blessings. 

Sanctus takes his place and begins the first prayer, Nero letting himself listen to his voice, the ringing rise and fall of it as he leads the congregation. He thinks about how he looks to the Order in this moment, perfect and lovely and ready, the virgin bride of the Savior. He’s hard by the end of the prayer, lace sticking to the tip of his dick. 

There’s a rumbling beyond the chamber that sends a shiver through the air, and the smell of incense is cut sharply by ozone, the stink after a lightning strike. Nero forces himself not to look up at the sound of splitting stone and the rattle of chains, but his heart races at the growl of a demon. 

There’s some hushed murmurs and rearranging of the congregation to make sure nothing is in its path to Nero, and Sanctus loudly offers blessings, beseeching this herald of the Savior to enact his will and wed his bride. Nero can’t help it, propping himself up for a better look and feeling his knees snap shut automatically at the sight of it. 

Demons in Fortuna tended to be middling, nothing the Holy Knights couldn’t handle, but this one is enormous. Chitinous armor covers it, thick spines carving upwards from it’s back where a tangle of electricity thrashes constantly. The claws are enormous, the length of swords, mirroring the single horn sprouting where the eyes should be. Nero feels a stab of regret and then guilt: he’d always pictured the demon who would deliver the Savior’s will to look more like the statues, like a man. Eyes to look into, lips to kiss. But that was selfish. Wasn’t this demon beautiful in its own way? The whorls of bone armor, the even rows of fangs, the heavy, rosy cocks-- 

Oh,  _ shit. _ Nero tenses up, that massive head swinging in his direction like it can smell his apprehension. The growl sounds like it comes from three different throats, and decorative golden chains draped over it chime like bells when it moves. Candles are knocked everywhere as it approaches, wax sizzling underfoot, and its jaws open to unfurl a dark, slimy tongue. 

Nero forces his legs back open, for a moment afraid of what it might do get at him if he doesn’t present himself. Afraid of shaming himself for hesitating. The sharp tip of the demon’s horn dances in the air over Nero’s stomach as it breaths over him, the heavy muscle of the tongue slapping wetly against his cock and squirming lower. Nero’s been taught not to be quiet, to not hold back when his body expresses praise for the Savior, and he hears his own voice echoing through the chamber. 

The demon’s tongue slips into his cunt and he shrieks, even though it’s just a quick taste. Too hot, so deep, nothing like touches he’s known for so long, and he wants more, but that enormous mouth is already moving further. The bony face plates shove against the backs of Nero’s thighs and ass as it curls a tongue around the plug and pulls, hot and wet and Nero’s hands slap against the marble bed as he tries to grab something, find anything to hold onto. 

It doesn’t take much for the plug to pop out of him, splattering extra lube on the stone and leaving Nero moaning, almost painfully empty. There’s an ominous creaking and he looks up in time to see the demon crush the stone plug in its jaws, demonic energy washing over the both of them and sending bolts of lightning dancing around the room. Nero has a moment to see both cocks (more like his than Sanctus’s, ridges, color, not human) jump and spurt extra fluid before the demon snarls, rattling the space in his chest. 

He knows he shouldn’t squirm, but the demon’s claws are too big for it to do anything but loom over Nero, tail thrashing and sending candles flying as it lines up and shoves into him. 

Nero hears his own desperate crying mixing with the demon’s deep growl, each rigid cock forced into his ass and cunt, stuffing him so fully that he can’t move his hips how he wants, throbbing in pain and excitement. Because it hurts-- of course it hurts, it was always going to hurt, but it’s proof that he’s a virgin, that he’s the bride, that no one else has ever done this to him and that the Savior is his first, even if it’s in the form of this demon. Touching places inside him that no one else has. 

“Does it f-feel good?” Nero begs, vision starting to feel hazy, his veil fluttering frantically against his face as he tries to breath. Does the demon understand him? “Use me… however you want, my… Savi-- oh!  _ Fuck!” _

Nobody could blame him for that, not for cursing at the feeling of those huge hips snapping into his, that face shoving into the side of his neck to scent him as it starts thrusting, natural lube squelching loudly amid the slap of wet skin against its hide. 

With some effort, one enormous clawed hand curls around Nero’s arms and midsection, chips of the marble beneath him gouged out, and Nero hears himself yelling even louder, struggling to arch further away or further into the pace of the demon fucking him, holding him like a sleeve for both cocks. He loses himself, not even thinking about finishing, just being folded underneath this demon and fucked hard, filled up, being the bride. As long as it takes. Forever. 

The demon noses his crown off, the veil falling away, and Nero hears his own moaning muffled as it sinks its thick tube of a tongue down into his throat, pulsing and fucking that hole with the same fervor, and Nero somewhere finds the air to try and scream. His arms are pinned-- if he could just touch his cock, he’d fall apart, he’d clench so hard that it would milk the seed out of this demon and into him, where it needs to be, where he needs it. 

It’s the thought of everyone watching that finally shoves Nero into cumming, knowing that everyone is watching him, watching him receive this blessing, watching the Savior love  _ him.  _

He feels himself drooling, choking on the demon’s tongue as he’s fucked through his orgasm, the pace only increasing as his body clamps down. There’s thunder even louder than the roar when the demon finishes, and Nero wails as his insides shudder, trying to fit the cum being pumped into him.

All he can do is lay there, shaking and leaking cum even before the demon pulls out of him with a wet gasp, Nero whimpering and coughing, his body hot and cold at the same time. He can hear Sanctus preaching, tries to hold onto it as the demon’s golden chains are rattled, and the overwhelming presence subsides.

There’s an eventual rustling of robes, the faint smell of pipe tobacco, and Nero reaches out for Sanctus, trembling. “Your… Holiness… did I do it...?”

“I have no doubt.” Sanctus’s voice shakes with pride and want, and Nero hears him hurrying with his robes. “You took our Lord’s seed, and you’ll give us his son.”

Nero pants, squirming at the painful overstimulation of Sanctus shoving his cock inside him, settling into the mess left behind by the demon before he reaches to return Nero’s crown and veil to their rightful place. 

“Now, allow us to worship his vessel.”

Through the fog of the veil, Nero sees the congregation approach, a sea of pale robes and hands reaching out for him. Voices he would recognize if he could see faces. _He’ll be so beautiful, swollen with the Savior’s gift._ _I want to taste it. Look at his body twitch. There’s cum everywhere…_

“Thank me, Nero,” Sanctus demands, the older man racing to cum inside him, to add his seed to the Savior’s inside Nero’s womb. 

“Thank you! Oh-- thank--” Nero bucks up as the Order members begin to touch him in earnest-- mouths kissing his wrists and sucking his fingers, teeth and tongue worrying his nipple through the robe, hands rubbing his legs. “Thank you, thank you…” A vestal peels his robe upwards to get at the mess of cum over his own stomach, licking and swallowing, making pleased noises. “Thank you, s-so much…” 

He stops thinking, keeps saying it like a chant, like a prayer he believes with all his heart, keeps thanking the congregation as they use him to finish-- when Sanctus withdraws, some finish in his ass or grind on his thigh to completion, careful not to disturb the thick flood of cum from his fluttering cunt. Strong hands tilt his hips up, and Nero sobs as he thinks about the seed coiling deeper into his body, taking root in him.  _ Please. That’s all I want, I want to be a good bride, I want to be good…  _

A hand finally touches his cock not with reverence but confidence, Nero gasping and struggling to see. It’s Credo, Credo who’s watched him struggle to jerk off within the confines of the chastity belt for years, Credo who seems more and more distant every day, but he’s still supposed to be his brother-- “Credo?”

He doesn’t answer, face flushed and eyes shining, and moves instead to lap at Nero’s cunt and asshole, gently sucking, rubbing his face into the mess of cum. 

Someone kisses his cheek through the veil, and Nero turns to see Kyrie, placing a few more kisses down the length of his body before opening that mouth, those lips, right over his cock. She locks eyes with him as she takes him down all the way, swallowing aggressively and Nero’s whine bounces around the stone temple. 

Finally. 

After being wrong, and then being too precious to be touched, Nero feels the hands and skin of the people he loves touching him and cries hot tears. He knows in this moment he is the heart of Fortuna, the hands of all the Order reaching for him, to touch and fondle and admire, and he’ll be theirs forever.


End file.
